Storms may rage, orphans and widows may weep, but the world must not
pause in its regular routine of business and of pleasure. This is
natural and right. It was not intended that men should walk perpetually
in sackcloth and ashes because of the sorrows that surround them. But
equally true is it that they were never meant to shut their eyes and
ears to those woes, and dance and sing through life heedlessly, as far
too many do until some thunderbolt falls on their own hearts, and brings
the truth home.
The command is twofold: "Weep with those that weep, and rejoice with
those that do rejoice."
Come then, reader, let us visit good Mrs Foster, and rejoice with her
as she sits at her tea-table contemplating her gallant son with a
mother's pride. She has some reason to be proud of him. Guy has just
received the gold medal awarded him by the Lifeboat Institution. Bax
and Tommy have also received their medals, and all three are taking tea
with the widow on the occasion. Lucy Burton and Amy Russell are there
too, but both of these young ladies are naturally much more taken up
with Tommy's medal than with those of Guy or of Bax!
And well they may be, for never a breast, large or small, was more
worthy of the decoration it supported.
"My brave boy," said the widow, referring to Tommy, and taking him by
the arm as he sat beside her, but looking, irresistibly, at her son, "it
was a noble deed. If I had the giving of medals I would have made yours
twice the size, with a diamond in the middle of it."
"What a capital idea!" said Lucy, with a silvery laugh, that obliged her
to display a double row of brilliant little teeth.
"A coral ring set with pearls would be finer, don't you think?" said
Guy, gravely.
Tommy grinned and said that that was a toothy remark!
Lucy blushed, and said laughingly, that she thought Mrs Foster's idea
better, whereupon the widow waxed vainglorious, and tried to suggest
some improvements.
Guy, fearing that he had been presumptuous in paying this sly
compliment, anxiously sought to make amends by directing most of his
conversation to Amy.
Bax, who was unusually quiet that evening, was thus left to make himself
agreeable to Lucy. But he found it hard work, poor fellow. It was
quite evident that he was ill at ease.
On most occasions, although habitually grave, Bax was hearty, and had
always plenty to say without being obtrusive in his conversation.
Moreover, his manners were good, and his deportment unconstrained and
easy. But when he visited the widow's cottage he became awkward and
diffident, and seemed to feel great difficulty in carrying on
conversation. During the short time he had been at Deal since the wreck
of the "Nancy," he had been up at the cottage every day on one errand or
another, and generally met the young ladies either in the house or in
the garden.
Could it be that Bax was in love? There was no doubt whatever of the
fact in his own mind; but, strange to say, no one else suspected it.
His character was grave, simple, and straightforward. He did not assume
any of those peculiar airs by which young men make donkeys of themselves
when in this condition! He feared, too, that it might be interfering
with the hopes of his friend Guy, whose affections, he had latterly been
led to suspect, lay in the same direction with his own. This made him
very circumspect and modest in his behaviour. Had he been quite sure of
the state of Guy's heart he would have retired at once, for it never
occurred to him for a moment to imagine that the girl whom Guy loved
might not love Guy, and might, possibly, love himself.
Be this as it may, Bax resolved to watch his friend that night closely,
and act according to the indications given. Little did poor Guy know
what a momentous hour that was in the life of his friend, and the
importance of the part he was then performing.
Bax rose to go sooner than usual.
"You are very kind, ma'am," he said, in reply to Mrs Foster's
remonstrances; "I have to visit an old friend to-night, and as it is
probable I may never see him again, I trust you'll excuse my going so
early."
Mrs Foster was obliged to acquiesce. Bax shook hands hurriedly, but
very earnestly, with each of the party, and quitted the cottage in
company with Guy.
"Come, Guy, let us walk over the sandhills."
"A strange walk on so dark a night; don't you think it would be more
cheerful on the beach?"
"So it would, so it would," said Bax, somewhat hastily, "but I want to
be alone with you, and we're likely to meet some of our chums on the
beach. Besides, I want to have a quiet talk, and to tell ye
something.--You're in love, Guy."
Bax said this so abruptly that his friend started, and for a few seconds
was silent. Then, with a laugh, he replied--
"Well, Bax, you've a blunt way of broaching a subject, but, now that you
put the thing to me, I feel inclined to believe that I am. You're a
sharper fellow than I gave you credit for, to have found me out so
soon."
"It needs but little sharpness to guess that when two young folk are
thrown much together and find each other agreeable, they're likely to
fall in love."
Bax's voice sank to its deepest tones; he felt that his hopes had now
received their deathblow, and in spite of himself he faltered. With a
mighty effort he crushed down the feeling, and continued in a tone of
forced gaiety--
"Come, I'm rejoiced at your good luck, my boy; she's one of a thousand,
Guy."
"So she is," said Guy, "but I'm not so sure of my good luck as you seem
to be; for I have not yet ventured to speak to her on the subject of
love."
"No?" exclaimed Bax in surprise, "that's strange."
"Why so?" said Guy.
"Because you've had lots of time and opportunity, lad."
"True," said Guy, "I have had enough of both, but some folk are not so
bold and prompt as others in this curious matter of love."
"Ah, very true," observed Bax, "some men do take more time than others,
and yet it seems to me that there has been time enough for a sharp
fellow like you to have settled that question. However, I've no doubt
myself of the fact that she loves you, Guy, and I do call that uncommon
good luck."
"Well, it may seem a vain thing to say, but I do fancy that she likes me
a bit," said the other, in a half jocular tone.
The two friends refrained from mentioning the name of the fair one. The
heart and mind of each was filled with one object, but each felt a
strange disinclination to mention her name.
"But it seems to me," continued Guy, "that instead of wanting to tell me
something, as you said, when you brought me out for a walk in this
dreary waste of furze and sand at such a time of night, your real object
was to pump me!"
"Not so," replied Bax, in a tone so deep and sad as to surprise his
friend; "I brought you here because the lonely place accords with my
feelings to-night. I have made up my mind to go to Australia."
Guy stopped abruptly. "You jest, Bax," said he.
"I am in earnest," replied the other, "and since I have forced myself
into your confidence, I think it but fair to give you mine. The cause
of my going is love! Yes, Guy, I too am in love, but alas! my love is
not returned; it is hopeless."
"Say not so," began Guy, earnestly; but his companion went on without
noticing the interruption.
"The case is a peculiar one," said he. "I have known the sweet girl
long enough to know that she does not love me, and that she _does_ love
another man. Moreover, _I_ love that man too. He is my friend; so, the
long and the short of it is, I'm going to up-anchor, away to the
gold-fields, and leave the coast clear to him."
"This must not be, Bax; you may be wrong in supposing your case
hopeless. May I ask her name?"
"Forgive me, Guy, I _must_ not mention it," said Bax.
It is not necessary to weary the reader with the variety of arguments
with which Guy plied his friend in order to turn him from his purpose,
as they wandered slowly over the sandhills together. He was
unsuccessful in his efforts to arouse hope in the bosom of his friend,
or to induce him to suspend his determination for a time. Nor was he
more fortunate in attempting to make Bax say who was the friend--for
whom he was about to make so great a sacrifice,--little suspecting that
it was himself!
"Now," said Bax, after having firmly resisted his companion's utmost
efforts, "I want you to leave me here alone. I may seem to you to be
obstinate and ungracious to-night" (he stopped and seized Guy's hand),
"but, believe me, I am not so. My heart is terribly down, and you know
I'm a rough matter-of-fact fellow, not given to be sentimental, so I
can't speak to you as I would wish on this subject; but wherever I may
go in this world, I will never cease to pray for God's blessing on you
and yours, Guy."
"I like to hear you say that, Bax," returned the other; "it will rejoice
my heart to think that love for me will be the means of taking you often
to the throne of God."
"You're a good fellow, Guy; perhaps what you have often said to me has
not been thrown away as much as you suppose. Come, now, instead of you
having to urge the subject on me, I'll ask you to give me a text.
Supposing that you and I were parting _to-night_ for the last time, and
that I were going off to Australia _to-morrow_, what would you say to me
in the way of advice and encouragement?"
Guy paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, "Delight thyself in
the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will give thee the desires of thine
heart."
"Thank 'ee, lad, I'll not forget the words," said Bax, wringing his
friend's hand.
"Perhaps I'll think of another and more suitable text when the time for
parting really comes," said Guy, sadly. "Good-night, Bax; mind you come
up to the cottage to-morrow, and let me know your plans."
"I shall be busy to-morrow, but I'll write," said Bax, as his friend
left him. "Ay," he added, "there goes a real Christian, and a
true-hearted friend. Ah's me! I'll never see him more!"
Bax wandered slowly and without aim over the dark waste for some time.
Almost unintentionally he followed the path that led past the Checkers
of the Hope. A solitary light burned in one of the lower windows of the
old inn, but no sound of revelry issued from its doors. Leaving it
behind him, Bax soon found himself standing within a few yards of the
tombstone of the ill-fated Mary whose name he bore.
"Poor thing, 'twas a sad fate!" he murmured, as he contemplated the
grave of the murdered girl, who had been a cousin of his own
grandfather. "Poor Mary, you're at rest now, which is more than I am."
For some minutes Bax stood gazing dreamily at the grave which was barely
visible in the faint light afforded by a few stars that shone through
the cloudy sky. Suddenly he started, and every fibre of his strong
frame was shaken with horror as he beheld the surface of the grave move,
and saw, or fancied he saw, a dim figure raise itself partially from the
earth.
Bax was no coward in any sense of that word. Many brave men there are
who, although quite fearless in regard to danger and death, are the most
arrant cowards in the matter of superstition, and could be made to flee
before a mere fancy. But our hero was not one of these. His mind was
strong, like his body, and well balanced. He stood his ground and
prepared to face the matter out. He would indeed have been more than
human if such an unexpected sight, in such circumstances, had failed to
horrify him, but the effect of the shock soon passed away.
"Who comes here to disturb me?" said a weak voice that evidently
belonged to this ghost.
"Hallo! Jeph, is that you?" exclaimed Bax, springing forward and gazing
into the old man's face.
"Ay, it's me, and I'm sorry you've found me out, for I like to be let
alone in my grief."
"Why, Jeph, you don't need to be testy with your friend. I'll quit ye
this moment if you bid me; but I think you might find a warmer and more
fitting bed for your old bones than poor Mary Bax's grave. Come, let me
help you up."
Bax said this so kindly, that old Jeph's temporary anger at having been
discovered passed away.
"Well, well," said he, "the only two people who have found me out are
the two I like best, so it don't much matter."
"Indeed," exclaimed the young man in surprise, "who is number two,
Jeph?"
"Tommy Bogey. He found me here on the night when Long Orrick was chased
by Supple Jim."
"Strange, he never told me about it," said Bax.
"'Cause I told him to hold his tongue," replied Jeph, "and Tommy's a
good fellow and knows how to shut his mouth w'en a friend asks him to--
as I now ask you, Bax, for I don't want people know that I come here
every night."
"What! do you come here _every_ night?" cried Bax in surprise.
"Ay, every night, fair weather and foul; I've been used to both for a
long time now, and I'm too tough to be easily damaged."
"But why do you this, Jeph? You are not mad! If you were, I could
understand it."
"No matter, no matter," said the old man, turning to gaze at the
tombstone before quitting the place. "Some people are fond of having
secrets. I've got one, and I like to keep it."
"Well, I won't try to pump it out of you, my old friend. Moreover, I
haven't got too much time to spare. I meant to go straight to your
house to-night, Jeph, to tell you that I'm off to Australia to-morrow by
peep o' day."
"Australia!" exclaimed Jeph, with a perplexed look in his old face.
"Ay, the blue peter's at the mast-head and the anchor tripped."
Here Bax related to his old comrade what he had previously told to Guy.
At first Jeph shook his head, but when the young sailor spoke of love
being the cause of his sudden departure, he made him sit down on the
grave, and listened earnestly.
"So, so, Bax," he said, when the latter had concluded, "you're quite
sure she's fond o' the other feller, are ye?"
"Quite. I had it from his own lips. At least he told me he's fond of
_her_, and I could see with my own eyes she's fond of _him_."
"Poor lad," said Jeph, patting his friend's shoulder as if he had been a
child, "you're quite right to go. I know what love is. You'll never
get cured in _this_ country; mayhap foreign air'll do it. I refused to
tell you what made me come out here lad; but now that I knows how the
wind blows with _you_, I don't mind if I let ye into my secret. Love!
ay, it's the old story; love has brought me here night after night since
ever I was a boy."
"Love!" exclaimed his companion; "love of whom?"
"Why, who should it be but the love o' the dear girl as lies under this
sod?" said the old man, putting his hand affectionately on the grave.
"Ay, you may well look at me in wonderment, but I wasn't always the
wrinkled old man I am now. I was a good-lookin' lad once, though I
don't look like it now. When poor Mary was murdered I was nineteen. I
won't tell ye how I loved that dear girl. Ye couldn't understand me.
When she was murdered by that"--(he paused abruptly for a moment, and
then resumed)--"when she was murdered, I thought I should have gone mad.
I _was_ mad, I believe, for a time; but when I came back here to stay,
after wanderin' in foreign parts for many years, I took to comin' to the
grave at nights. At first I got no good. I thought my heart would
burst altogether, but at last the Lord sent peace into my soul. I began
to think of her as an angel in heaven, and now the sweetest hours of my
life are spent on this grave. Poor Mary! She was gentle and kind,
especially to the poor and the afflicted. She took a great interest in
the ways and means we had for savin' people from wrecks, and used often
to say it was a pity they couldn't get a boat made that would neither
upset nor sink in a storm. She had read o' some such contrivance
somewhere, for she was a great reader. Ever since that time I've bin
trying, in my poor way, to make something o' the sort, but I've not
managed it yet. I like to think she would have been pleased to see me
at it."
Old Jeph stopped at this point, and shook his head slowly. Then he
continued--
"I find that as long as I keep near this grave my love for Mary can't
die, and I don't want it to. But that's why I think you're right to go
abroad. It won't do for a man like you to go moping through life as I
have done. Mayhap there's some truth in the sayin', Out o' sight out o'
mind."
"Ah's me!" said Bax; "isn't it likely that there may be some truth too
in the words o' the old song, `Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'
But you're right, Jeph, it wouldn't do for _me_ to go moping through
life as long as there's work to do. Besides, old boy, there's plenty of
_this_ sort o' thing to be done; and I'll do it better now that I don't
have anybody in particular to live for."
Bax said this with reckless gaiety, and touched the medal awarded to him
by the Lifeboat Institution, which still hung on his breast where it had
been fastened that evening by Lucy Burton.
The two friends rose and returned together to Jeph's cottage, where Bax
meant to remain but a few minutes, to leave sundry messages to various
friends. He was shaking hands with the old man and bidding him
farewell, when the door was burst open and Tommy Bogey rushed into the
room. Bax seized the boy in his arms, and pressed him to his breast.
"Hallo! I say, is it murder ye're after, or d'ye mistake me for a polar
bear?" cried Tommy, on being put down; "wot a hug, to be sure! Lucky
for me that my timbers ain't easy stove in. Wot d'ye mean by it?"
Bax laughed, and patted Tommy's head. "Nothin', lad, only I feel as if
I should ha' bin your mother."
"Well, I won't say ye're far out," rejoined the boy, waggishly, "for I
do think ye're becomin' an old wife. But, I say, what can be wrong with
Guy Foster? He came back to the cottage a short while ago lookin' quite
glum, and shut himself up in his room, and he won't say what's wrong, so
I come down here to look for you, for I knew I'd find ye with old Jeph
or Bluenose."
"Ye're too inquisitive," said Bax, drawing Tommy towards him, and
sitting down on a chair, so that the boy's face might be on a level with
his. "No doubt Guy will explain it to you in the morning. I say,
Tommy, I have sometimes wondered whether I could depend on the
friendship which you so often profess for me."
The boy's face flushed, and he looked for a moment really hurt.
"Tutts, Tommy, you're gettin' thin-skinned. I do but jest."
"Well, jest or no jest," said the boy, not half pleased, "you know very
well that nothing could ever make me turn my back on _you_."
"Are you sure?" said Bax, smiling. "Suppose, now, that I was to do
something very bad to you, something unkind, or that _looked_ unkind--
what then?"
"In the first place you couldn't do that, and, in the second place, if
you did I'd like you just as well."
"Ay, but suppose," continued Bax, in a jocular strain, "that what I did
was _very_ bad."
"Well, let's hear what you call very bad."
Bax paused as if to consider, then he said: "Suppose, now, that I were
to go off suddenly to some far part of the world for many years without
so much as saying good-bye to ye, what would you think?"
"I'd find out where you had gone to, and follow you, and pitch into you
when I found you," said Tommy stoutly.
"Ay, but I did not ask what you'd do; I asked what you'd think?"
"Why, I would think something had happened to prevent you lettin' me
know, but I'd never think ill of you," replied Tommy.
"I believe you, boy," said Bax, earnestly. "But come, enough o' this
idle talk. I want you to go up to the cottage with a message to Guy.
Tell him not to speak to any one to-night or to-morrow about what I said
to him when we were walking on the sandhills; and be off, lad, as fast
as you can, lest he should let it out before you get there."
"Anything to do with smugglers?" inquired the boy, with a knowing look,
as they stood outside the door.
"Why, n-no, not exactly."
"Well, good-night, Bax; good-night, old Jeph."
Tommy departed, and the two men stood alone.
"God bless the lad. You'll be kind to him, Jeph, when I'm away?"
"Trust me, Bax," said the old man, grasping his friend's hand.
Without another word, Bax turned on his heel, and his tall, stalwart
figure was quickly lost to view in the dark shadows of the night.